The café on the corner had barely changed. Same cracked wood floors, same worn-out chairs, same little bell above the door that chimed when you walked in. He hadn’t meant to linger—just stopped by for a quiet espresso before heading back to training—but when the bell rang and he looked up to see you, time seemed to hesitate for a second.

Mihály blinked, closing the notebook in front of him, the one filled with neat handwriting and small diagrams of midfield movement.

“I thought you left for good,” he said softly, a trace of a smile in the way his lips curved—not quite surprised, not quite sure if this was real.

You shrugged, unsure how to explain the sudden return.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. I’ll buy you coffee if you promise not to disappear again.”

There was something different in him. Still calm, still measured—but older now, more grounded. He studied your face as if memorizing every change, every subtle shift time had brought.

“I still think about that day by the river,” he murmured after a pause. “The way you talked about the future like it was a puzzle you couldn’t wait to solve.”

He glanced at the notebook and then back at you. “I think I was always hoping you’d find your way back here… eventually.”

And just like that, the space between you filled with possibility.